


Hearing without Listening

by TheGuardianAngel



Series: the fear of falling apart [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Food aversion, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, implied/referenced sensory issues, john steinbeck quotes, takes place during season 2 episode 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 11:18:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGuardianAngel/pseuds/TheGuardianAngel
Summary: Dinner at the ski lodge goes a bit different. Walter takes things into his own hands this time, while Clementine has a lot on her mind that she doesn't know how to sort through. Some things are a little too much for her to handle.





	Hearing without Listening

**Author's Note:**

> I would like dedicate this to whomever happens to play "Mute Clem" playthroughs, because that is exactly where the inspiration for this oneshot comes from. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not formally diagnosed with Autism or any sort of sensory disorder. I do, however, suffer from sensory overloads and other issues similar to those with Autism or anxiety. This fic was written for mostly entertainment purposes only, and is not meant to speak for or over anyone who actually is formally diagnosed with Autism/any other issue on the spectrum. Thank you. 
> 
> The title comes from "The Sound of Silence" by Simon & Garfunkel.
> 
> Hit me up at Gortys-and-loaderbot.tumblr.com.

The first indicator that something is going to happen is the small pains in her limbs as she moves her spoon around in her bowl. Her arms ache, like a set of large hands are squeezing her too hard. The feeling in her shoulders makes her want to squirm while the thumping in her head is just a little too much.

Clementine says nothing. She looks down at her bowl of peaches and beans and wrinkles her nose. When she first saw it in the pot, part of her hadn’t even believed that Walter was _really_ going to serve that to them – she knows she’s in no place to complain, or to refuse food. She can’t. She’s hungry. But the smell and the mushed together food is… unappetizing.

They’re talking. Everyone is. When Kenny, Luke, and Nick shoved a few sets of tables together, Clementine hadn’t realized that every single set of people in the lodge were going to be carrying on their own conversations – and loudly, too.

She doesn’t know if she wants to look up or not. So she stares down at her bowl and tries to ignore the lurching in her stomach as she slowly moves the spoon in order to separate the peaches and the beans. The peaches are a disgusting reddish yellow that sort of reminds Clementine of the mixture of ketchup and mustard – and even that thought itself almost makes her want to gag.

The sauce from the beans mix with the juice from the peaches and combine to create a mixture that looks like dark urine. The sauce from the beans is _coating_ the peaches. The juice from the peaches is covering the beans. Somehow, her mind forces her memories back to just a few days before. How she ate beans out of a discarded can because she was so hungry and then instantly regretted it. How she fed the dog that bit her beans out of a discarded can because he was so hungry – and then instantly regretted it.

Together, the meal looks like fecal matter. Imagining the taste of that in her mouth is enough for her stomach. Clementine places her spoon down and rubs a hand over the sore tight muscles in her shoulders, then looks up at the others.

Kenny has moved. He’s next to Luke now. He’s louder now.

Clementine thinks back to all of those… what, two years ago? Yes, she thinks, two years ago. It was those two years ago that she was around Kenny for most of the day. She remembers how loudly he and Lilly fought. She remembers how, a large amount of the time, their arguing didn’t even make any sense. It was the same formula; one of them wanted to be in charge and the other didn’t like it; they exchanged remarks that confused Clementine greatly; they fought.

They screamed so loud that she even remembers the one time it set off Doug, and he yelled at them to _stop, Jesus Christ, just stop!_ And she remembers how many times the arguing was too much for her, too. Most of the time, actually. She always flinched; she felt crowded. Something in the air hung heavy over her head.

She feels Nick brush the crook of his arm against her ribs, and instantly her skin crawls. Even when he moves his arm, the feeling lingers. Clementine can’t suppress a shiver. The feeling lingers. The touch is not comfortable.

Alvin scrapes his fork across the side of his bowl. The noise feels almost ear piercing. He does it again. And then Nick elbows Clementine again. She pulls at her shirt where he elbowed her for only a moment before pulling it up so that she isn’t sitting on it.

“Hope you like the food.” says Kenny with a smirk.

A heavy weight pushes into Clementine’s chest. It feels like he’s mocking her. Nick says something that she can’t make out and she thinks that maybe he’s mocking her too. Maybe he’s saying that Clementine is too _picky_ but she never intends to _come off_ as picky. Maybe they’re mad. Maybe Walter will be mad if she doesn’t eat –

And her heart hammers as she stares down at the mixture. It’s mush, like the leftovers from her last walker kill. The only thing missing is the blood – the mixture looks like brain tissue. But she slowly dips her spoon and a little bit of the juice/sauce mixture clings to it.

She stares at the spoon while the voices all around her increase in volume the way a house catches on fire – slowly spreading, and then all at once. She stares at the spoon and while she stares at the mixture clinging to the metal, she feels sick to her stomach again.

“You not hungry, Clem?”

Clementine can’t tell what Kenny’s feeling. His face makes absolutely no expression at all; completely blank. He takes another bite of his food and then clangs his spoon into the bowl a moment later before banging around in his spot, almost like he’s either, a.) trying to annoy Clementine with the noise, or b.) he’s trying to get comfortable.

She wants to believe it’s that he’s trying to get comfortable, she really does. But the uneven legs in the bench create noise when anyone moves in them.

“N-no – I’m…” Clementine averts eye contact and shrugs, then shakes her head. From the moment she woke up that morning, she knew something wasn’t going to go right. From this moment, she starts to think she may know what it is. How is she supposed to answer this? Does it even matter to Kenny, or is he just pretending to care if she’s hungry or not? It isn’t like they were ever close to begin with…

Luke pulls a face. Clementine tries to block out his words, because she wants to focus on anything but the food. “It’s… great. Thank you.” He looks back down into his own bowl, and then looks over to Nick.

“Yeah, peaches and beans are great for nutrition… not too great on the way out, though.” And Kenny laughs. Hard. So hard, in fact, that Clementine raises an eyebrow and slowly moves her gaze towards him. A bathroom joke is about the last thing she wants to hear right now, especially while staring down at a bowl of what looks like feces.

Kenny messes with Luke and Nick – at least Clementine thinks he’s messing with them. He _claims_ that he’s just saying they’re good friends, but Nick and Luke – especially Nick – react as if Kenny has just completely insulted them. And Luke’s expression changes from one that seems completely focused on his meal to one of anger.

It’s textbook anger; a glare, raised eyebrows, and an accusing look.

When Luke allows his spoon to clatter against his bowl, Clementine has to manually suppress the urge to smack him before smacking herself. She grinds her front teeth against her bottom front set and feels herself automatically digging her fingernails into her arm.

She can’t get up and smack him. She tries to tell herself this. She _can’t_ smack herself in front of them. They’ll think she’s weird. She _can’t_ take much more of this noise. She wants to walk away and sit in a quiet corner and try to sort through every little thought as it flies through her mind.

There’s too many things coming in all at once. The cogs are spinning in her mind, but there’s hardly anything processing. It’s then when things go from bad to worse. And from worse, they go to even worse than that.

The conversation starts out with Wellington. Clementine thinks of Christa and her will to find Wellington and that just makes the heavy pit in her stomach sink even further than it already is. Kenny talks about Wellington, though Clementine does her best to tune him out.

And then, he brings up Michigan and Nick just _has_ to retort. Clementine flinches when Kenny starts up.

That’s how the yelling starts. The arguing. The possessive nature.

“Listen, _Vanilla Ice_!” Kenny suddenly shouts at Nick, his eyes scrunching up and his hands flying into fists. “I don’t know what your deal is, but you’re more than welcome to take off in the morning!” Luke’s face from earlier comes back, and he looks over to Kenny.

Clementine bows her head so that the bill of her cap covers her eyes. She digs her fingernails harder into her arm, until she’s close to tears of pain.

“What’s the deal with these guys, Clem?” Kenny shouts again, eyes widened even further.

“I-I don’t -”

Kenny cuts her off when he keeps yelling, while Nick and Luke yell back. The rest of the group is staring, but the noise feels like it’s only getting louder. Clementine places her head in her hands when it starts to get louder and wonders to herself – why would Kenny ask that if he _knew_ she didn’t know what to say?

It’s something Kenny would do, right? Maybe. It seems like something he would do; he would pit her against them – right? Or maybe it was a genuine question and he didn’t get a chance to let her finish. Maybe.

Each little word comes in louder than the preceding one.

Each little noise turns into an even louder and bigger one.

Each little taunt that the three men throw back and forth builds up further and further like some sort of wall made of heated emotion.

“STOP!”

And just like that, a hush falls over the entire room.

Clementine’s hands are clamped harder and harder against her ears as the seconds pass. She feel her body shaking, sensitive to even the silence. The sound of silence does nothing to soothe anything buzzing around in her mind.

“Clementine…”

Kenny stops, he looks up at her with his eyes wide, and he speaks her name in a way that is so mind numbing and ear grating that she wants to scream. She wants to _scream_ and she wants to yell at the top of her lungs for them to stop. But they won’t stop and _it_ won’t stop.

“Shut up! _SHUT THE HELL UP!_ ”

Tears sting at her eyes, and her vocal cords strain as her heart hammers harder and harder until she can hardly breathe and _dear God_ , they’re staring. They’re _staring_ and it feels like a million little things attacking her consciousness to create one big distraction that covers her entire being. It hurts more than anything. It doesn’t stop.

It won’t.

She bolts, her eyes shut against overwhelmed tears that threaten to spill as she clamps her hands even tighter over her ears and yanks at the dark curls that she has tangled in her fingers. Truthfully, Clementine can barely even see where she’s going – she just leaves.

She feels herself bang into the wall by her elbow; even more frustration rises up. Even more hurt and even more grief. It’s when she finds herself coming into contact head on that Clementine finally stops and peeks out of her squinted eyes.

A shallow, shaky breath escapes her as she presses her head against the wall facing the lounge room. Her hands remain tightly pressed against her ears; the sheer force that she has tugging at her hair pulls out a few curly hairs. Curving her neck slightly, Clementine allows her baseball cap to fall from her head and to the ground as she pushes harder and harder against the wall.

Her nails dig deeper and deeper into her sensitive skin, until she can feel the imprints of her nails in her scalp. All she can think is distraction – to distract herself from… whatever it was that was happening in there. And all she wants to do is make it stop.

Tears peek out. Her head absolutely _aches_ but she doesn’t even care. She can hear them in the dining room – mostly Kenny – but she doesn’t even care. Screw them, she thinks. Screw them and screw the noise and screw every little feeling that hangs heavy over her body.

Clementine hears them. Most of the words are lost between the sound of her own panting and the hands over her ears, but the ones that aren’t clatter around in her head. Kenny and Luke and Nick throw around blame. Sarah says something that sounds worried. They all do.

The footsteps Clementine hears are too loud. She digs her fingernails so deep into her skin and rakes them until she swears she feels the sensitive skin split. The little devil on her shoulder begs her to distract herself. To hit. To scratch. To bite herself until she leaves a wound like the one on her left arm.

“Clementine.”

The voice is hushed. She barely hears it with her hands over her ears.

Walter.

“Are you all right?”

She wants to yell and scream and cry and kick. The urge to hurt herself has not yet disappeared and it doesn’t feel like it will. It doesn’t feel like it _ever_ will. And that in itself runs through her like physical pain.

His voice is quiet. He doesn’t touch her.

“It’s okay.”

Clementine doesn’t answer for almost a minute. For a moment, it’s as if she can’t physically force her voice to work. And then she slowly begins to rake her nails across the skin above her ears. “ _Stop_.”

Walter is quiet for a moment. She can’t see his expression, but she wonders for a moment if he’s upset or if he understands. If he’s sad or if he’s worried. If he’s going to touch her or if he’s going to walk away and pretend that none of this ever happened.

He doesn’t respond to her words. Clementine can sense his presence a few feet away before Walter asks in a quiet voice, “Could you join me outside? It’ll be quieter out there, Clementine.”

She can feel the gazes of everyone else burning into her. She can feel Walter’s too, and maybe if she goes outside, she can find a bit of peace.

Her eyes open just enough to find her way outside. She follows Walter out of the front doors and into the frigid cold that somehow makes it easier to breathe. The only noise there is to hear is the gentle whirring of the wind turbine as it spins at a steady rhythm.

She sits on the front steps, her head leaned into her knees and her hands over her face. Walter sits down a few inches away; he says nothing for a moment, before Clementine slowly finds herself taking in the silence.

“I’m sorry about that,” says Walter, looking over to her.

Clementine doesn’t force herself to look back at him. Instead, she watches the wind turbine turn. “ _I’m_ sorry.” she echoes in a barely audible voice. Her right arm grips her left, while her broken and bitten nails dig into the skin surrounding her bandaged dog bite.

Walter falters for a moment before saying, “You have nothing to be sorry _for_.” Clementine picks at the skin wordlessly as she mulls over his words. “What happened in there wasn’t something that you have to be ashamed of.”

It feels like it. Dear _God_ , does it _feel_ like it. Clementine does not meet his eye or look up at all. Instead, she murmurs, “I wanted them to be quiet.” Slowly, her hands slide back to her scalp, her nails intertwining with her fringe again. “They were _loud_.”

“They _were_ really loud, weren’t they?”

A nod is all she can muster, and that’s just barely.

“They shouldn’t have put you in the middle like that,” Walter sighs, shifting in his spot. “And I’m sorry they did. I was a teacher; I remember what it was like to be caught in the middle of two cliques.”

The meaning to his words takes more than a few seconds for her to process. Clementine knows he’s trying to relate to her – she remembers that he was a teacher who probably dealt with people who acted like young, arguing children every day.

And maybe Kenny and Luke and Nick _were_ acting like two cliques. Nick and Luke versus Kenny, or their group versus Kenny’s group. Maybe it was something like that. But by now, she’s been with just Christa for so long that it feels foreign. Her group’s arguments seldom went this far; her panic hasn’t gone this far in a while.

“I suspect they’ll find common ground soon enough.” There’s a pregnant pause. “It may take some time, but that’s just how these things work. And there may be some smaller disagreements, but they most likely won’t go this far. It may not feel like it, but everything will be fine.”

Walter doesn’t raise his voice above a hoarse sounding whisper. Clementine still doesn’t look up; mentally, she’s acknowledging what he’s saying. It just won’t translate out loud. She can’t bring herself to speak.

“Listen, sometimes relationships are like any machine. You don’t throw them out when they break down.” Clementine looks up just slightly, though she can’t meet his eyes. Walter turns his gaze just slightly to acknowledge her movement. “People are the same way. Sometimes, they break down. You just have to get your hands dirty and grease the wheels. You don’t have to throw away everything because of one little slip.”

For just a moment, Clementine imagines herself greasing a set of conveyer belt wheels with oil. Surely, Walter can’t mean that. She tells herself it’s just a saying. He continues in the same, quiet voice in a gentle tone.

“Some machines can work non-stop. Others need a break every once in a while. There isn’t anything wrong with that, Clementine.”

It takes her a moment before her pounding head comprehends that he’s talking about people, and not machines. That he’s – possibly – trying to be metaphorical. Maybe. It’s difficult to tell.

“I’m sorry.” The words are automatic, like she’s some kind of machine – like Walter’s metaphors – that can’t stop repeating an error. She can feels tears stinging her eyes again, though she doesn’t want them to spill. Clementine hugs her knees to her chest and can’t bring herself to look at him any further. “I just _can’t_ \- … I can’t listen… to them anymore.”

Walter nods, looking in front of himself, and then back at her. “That’s all right. Things were getting heated in there.” Clementine nods slowly. “I suspected you were starting to feel overwhelmed.”

She doesn’t know exactly how to answer this. It’s the truth, _yes_ , but how he could tell is something that’s lost to her. At least before she got too upset, that is.

Suddenly, Walter looks over to her and folds his hands in his lap. “Have you ever heard of a sensory overload, Clementine?”

She shakes her head. 

“It’s… sort of when you start to feel really overwhelmed. Like there’s too much going on around you.” He grimaces. “Do you ever feel like that?”

Clementine wants to answer _yes_. She feels like it all the time. Like there’s too much that’s clinging onto her brain, but nothing wants to process. Like she can’t concentrate or function sometimes. She remembers Sarah saying _something_ about that – maybe it was that _she_ felt the same way sometimes. Sarah got overwhelmed when things got serious when they left the cabin. And when each member began to argue on what their next move should be.

So she nods.

“There’s nothing wrong with that at all. That’s probably what happened here. You just need a break – a breather, if you will. Just… some time to collect your thoughts.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Clementine feels her eyes itching again as an urge to release angry tears boils up to the surface again. She looks down at her feet and moves her arms to either side of her, before raking her nails against the splintery, wooden steps.

Walter takes a deep breath, “And with the fighting going on inside… well, we have to unify our factions for a common goal.” He smiles kindly, “You know, like Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt. Will you help me with that?”

Mulling this over, Clementine wonders what she has to lose; is it her mind? Her dignity? The small amount of respect she gets as an eleven year who has trouble opening up some doors because they’re too heavy? No. She can’t lose any of that. She wouldn’t.

And if they don’t fight as much, maybe she won’t feel so overwhelmed.

And so, she nods slowly. Her voice is dormant – the nod is the only communication she can force herself to make. Her heart rate has begun to slow down, just a little bit, but the shame has reached an ungodly level.

Again, she thinks, if they don’t fight, maybe she won’t get so overwhelmed by the noise. Maybe if no one fights and yells or screams or argues – there will be less to get in the way of living. She won’t feel so helpless sitting in front of a group of adults with conflicting opinions if they can talk it out and unify against a common enemy – or for a common goal, as Walter said.

“They have to learn how to talk things out. Let me tell you a little secret – the world isn’t over, even if people say it is. People are more political than ever before.” Clementine pushes herself backwards and forwards with her toes and bites her lip as she tries to focus on Walter’s words. “All we can do – what we _need_ to do – is to _learn_ from each other. To _empathize_ and use our heads.”

Clementine thinks that there are times when her head seems to use her – the rest of her body, at least – as a vessel for every little frustration that comes in. She isn’t quite sure if she wants to use her head.

“And if we learn from each… well, we can support each other better. For example – I can help you, and vice versa. Kenny, Nick, and Luke can help each other, so they don’t argue as much. And that benefits you as well, because it takes away something that hurts you.” Walter grimaces again, and for a moment, his shoulders slump. “It’s a bit unfortunate that it’s not the default, but I suppose the world can’t be _all_ sunshine and friendship. But we’re getting better. We just have to… well, learn from each other.” He clears his throat and says, “’No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.’ Steinbeck. You read him?”

Clementine has heard of Steinbeck, though she isn’t entirely sure if she’s read him.

“Well, my point is: as long as we have our wits about us, we can make the right choice. We can build off of each other and help each other along the way. Right?”

The words float through her head rather lightly. She broods for a moment before they fully process and she thinks about Kenny’s lack of control. About Nick, who willingly got drunk when faced with a hard time. Luke, who seems to be getting closer and closer to a breaking point. She may not understand people very well, but she’s starting to understand Walter’s words.

She can take a breather. She _isn’t_ a machine that can run on and on forever without having to stop. And the people inside aren’t robots – they’re imperfect people who can use a lesson in kindness and can use a common goal. Maybe they can help. Maybe they aren’t to be avoid in times of crisis.

She has to get her hands dirty and grease the wheels – for the ones inside of the lodge. Maybe for herself. Clementine doesn’t want to shut down. She doesn’t want anyone else inside to shut down. Maybe it’s for the better that she broods on Walter’s words; she knows she can’t quit now because it’s tough.

Resting is an option. Giving up on herself and on the ones inside isn’t.

“And, I did want to reiterate,” Walter begins, turning his gaze towards her, “Being overwhelmed isn’t your fault. It’s not horrible or unnatural, or anything. I thought maybe you would feel a little bit better out here – and I know I’ve just given you a long lecture, right?” He lets out a small chortle. “I hope you’re feeling better, at least a small amount. I’ve seen a few of my students have the same problem. And, like I said before, they needed a _break_. Some… peace and quiet. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with that. It just means they have to work a little bit harder to help themselves and the people around them.” He winks. “Like I said, they get their hands dirty and grease the wheels, instead of throwing out the entire machine. Right?”

Clementine isn’t sure if it’s five seconds or five minutes – the time bleeds together – before she processes Walter’s words. Her gaze comes up minimally, but she knows exactly what he’s saying. Well, she tries to know what he’s saying.  
She still doesn’t meet his eye, but she tries her best, with a thumping heart and a pounding head and the pained sensation in her body, to answer his question the best she can.

“Right.”  

 


End file.
